Death in the Setting Sun (37 page)

“I cannot help it if it was a scene of violent crime,” she had announced. “I like it and that, I’m afraid, is that.”

John meanwhile had returned to Bellow’s Farm to say his farewells and to check on the progress of Hugh. And, most importantly, to speak to Michael O’Callaghan. He had found the Irishman in the barn, packing his simple bag before returning to London.

“So it was Priscilla all along,” the actor said grimly. “She was always a strange girl, even as a child. We were cousins, you know.”

“So Benedict told me.”

“For some reason she didn’t want that put about. Probably thought my penniless state would reflect badly on her. Something like that anyway.”

“Tell me, Michael, did she have a child?”

“Oh yes, she bore a bastard all right.”

“And who was the father? Do you know?”

“It was a local lad, just a simple fellow she lured into her clutches.”

“Not the King? Not Lord Hope?”

Michael gave a laugh. “No, neither. Did she tell you that it was?”

“She said it was both of them. So why did she kill his Lordship?”

“Probably to make things easier for me.” Michael looked grim. “But, by Jasus, it’s made things harder. I must go to town and woo Georgiana all over again.”

“I wish you luck. Do you think she’ll come back?”

“I’ve no idea, to be honest with you.”

The Irishman slung his bag onto his shoulder and held out his hand. “Goodbye, Sir. It’s been a pleasure to know you.”

And with that he went off up the drive and out of John’s life.

Staring at his retreating back, the Apothecary smiled wearily and had gone to see Hugh Bellow.

“Well, Will — or should I call you John? — the leg’s coming along, don’t you think?” Hugh had asked.

“It’s excellent. You won’t need extra help for much longer.”

“Just a week or so and then I’ll be walking with a stick. Thank you for all you did.”

“I’m glad to have been of help.”

“Oh, by the way, Jake asked me to pass on regards. He’s at market in Brentford at the moment.”

“Is he happier by any chance?”

“Aye, he is. Seems he’s courting a pretty widow.”

“Well I wish him the best.”

Hugh cleared his throat. “So it was one of the ladies was the killer.”

“Yes. Do you know I felt there was something odd about her after the so-called attack. I went back to the scene and got the idea that everything was not right. If only I’d acted sooner.”

“We can all say that, John. I think you acted to the best of your ability.”

After that conversation the Apothecary had gone out into the fields and stared at the spot where he had once seen Emilia walk. But there had been nothing. Whatever had been the explanation, it was over. He knew that he would never see her again.

He had caught the stagecoach to Kensington and so, somewhat dishevelled, had arrived at his father’s house. As he walked up the street his heart had almost stopped, for there coming towards him was the tall spare frame of Sir Gabriel, as stunning as ever in starkest black and white, hand-in-hand with Rose. Just for a moment John had stood and observed them, relishing his child’s beauty, her red hair and lovely complexion. Then he had broken into a run, hugging Sir Gabriel to him, picking up his daughter and whirling her in the air above his head. Finally they had gone into the house.

“So, my dear, you are returned to us, as I always knew you would be.”

“Yes, the murderess has been caught.”

“And did you guess correctly?”

“No, Sir. She kept me on a string till the very end.”

“I believe she must have been in love with you.” John had laughed. “You will never cease to amaze me, Sir. Do you know she even stood in my garden in the dead of night, watching the house.”

“Wretched woman. Well, now she’s gone and there’s an end to it.”

The Apothecary had poured himself a large glass of claret. “And tell me about Shug Lane. Who is running the shop?”

“Nicholas Dawkins, of course. Along with Gideon Purle. I have put a local apothecary in charge at Kensington and let Nick return to London, which he much prefers. So, my son, if you feel like getting away, you are free to do so.”

John had smiled crookedly. “I would rather like to take Rose with me. I feel that she and I should get to know one another again.”

“An admirable suggestion. And where are you thinking of going?”

“To Devon,” John had answered without hesitation. “And how is Elizabeth?”

“I owe her an enormous amount. She took the most pitiful job in order to help me. The day the Princess moved on she hired a post chaise and went west to await my arrival.”

“Then you must join her, my son,” Sir Gabriel had said wisely.

John had got up and kissed his adopted father on the cheek, considering that he had been more than blessed that such a man should have chosen to make him part of his family.

There was one more thing he needed to do before he went westwards. Quite alone, not even with Rose for company, John went to Kensington churchyard and put a bunch of spring flowers on the grave of Emilia Rawlings, Sir Gabriel had arranged all beautifully, having a marble headstone erected with the words, “Emilia, beloved wife of John Rawlings. 1738-1764. Asleep with the angels.” At the head of the stone was the carved face of an angel that bore more than a passing resemblance to Emilia herself.

John had knelt down by the grave and spoken to it. “I swore I’d kill your murderer with my own hand, but I couldn’t, my darling. You see, it was poor mad Priscilla. You do understand that, don’t you?”

There had been no reply but he had felt strangely at peace.

“I’m taking Rose to Devon,” he had said.

And this time the breeze had whispered, “Good.”

And now he reined in his mount, his daughter sitting in front of him, and thought about everything that had happened. Before him stretched the wild Devon landscape, the vast expanse of sky, the rugged turf beneath his horse’s feet.

Rose turned to look at him. “What are you thinking, Papa?”

“I’m thinking about your mother and how much she loved this place.”

“We won’t see her again, will we?”

“Not in this life, no.”

“I miss her.”

“So do I,” answered John.

Then he stared as into his line of vision came a black horse with a woman rider on top. Her hair was streaming out behind her and she rode with that easy confidence that told him it must be Elizabeth come to meet them.

He waved his arm over his head. “Hello.”

His voice echoed round the hills and she heard him. “John,” she called.

He and Rose trotted forward while she cantered in his direction. Then as she approached, she shot them a look full of fun and said, “Catch me.”

Her horse wheeled and went off at a terrific pace. “Hold tight, my darling,” said John Rawlings to his daughter.

And so with Rose clinging on for dear life and the Apothecary’s heart pounding in his chest, he galloped off into the wild, wild country that lay ahead.

Historical Note

John Rawlings, Apothecary, really lived as did Sir John Fielding, the Blind Beak. John was born circa 1731, though his actual parentage is somewhat shrouded in mystery. He became a Yeoman of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries on 13th March, 1755, giving his address as 2, Nassau Street, Soho, Sir John was knighted in 1761, when he was forty years old. His work in assisting his brother Henry, the author, in founding the Runners, later known as the Bow Street Runners, needs no further description.

Princess Amelia, daughter of George II, was born in 1710 in Hanover. She purchased the 1663 Palladian Villa, known as Gunnersbury House, in 1761. She was the intended wife of Frederick the Great who corresponded with her until his marriage in 1733. At her death his miniature was found on her breast next to her heart. But she was also the mistress of the Duke of Grafton and, apparently, the Duke of Newcastle. Her parties at Gunnersbury House became legendary and Horace Walpole was a frequent visitor. Some while after her death in 1786, the house was demolished and the land divided into lots to be sold off. Thus Gunnersbury eventually passed into the hands of the Rothschilds. For local historians, Bollo Lane is situated on the site of Bellow Brook, and Bollo Bridge Road is where the old wooden bridge once stood.